The sound of bullets firing,
The shaking of my hands while re-arming.
The battle ground filled with the blood of the dead,
My hands coloured with the those who had bled.

Suddenly when I sat to hide,
A photo fell by my side.
It fell from the pocket of my shirt,
The photo that lay on the dirt.

I picked it up and saw,
The picture of a lady without a single flaw.
I felt that inside me entered a new life, 
Since it none but my dear wife.

My dear wife, whom I had left to come to this battlefield, 
My dear wife who is my love, life and shield.
I stood up again holding her photo inside my fist,
When a bullet got shot and entered my chest.

I fell, still holding the photo in my hand,
As I lay breathless on the sand,
I wished to see for the last time the laugh,
Of my lovely lady in the photograph.

.    .    .